The Equalisers: A Soldier's Oath

No, what she wanted was for the effort to be successful. She wanted to escape Kuwait with her son. Once they were back in this country her attorney would take the appropriate measures to protect her and Ata from her ex-husband. Unfortunately, no matter that the American courts had ruled in her favor from the beginning, if she didn’t have Ata in her custody there was nothing she could do. Extradition didn’t apply to stolen children. This was the only way.

“Do you have any packing instructions?” She knew how to dress for life in Kuwait, but she didn’t have any idea the fashion essentials for covert maneuvers.

“You’ll need rubber-soled shoes. Sneakers will do. Dark clothing for night wear and something along the lines of khakis for daytime. Modest attire, as I’m sure you know. Our main objective is to blend in wherever we are, whatever the hour.”

She got it. And he was right about the modesty thing, not that the concept would ever be a problem for her, she’d been raised far too strictly even to consider otherwise. Still, a woman in Kuwait was expected to be covered. The less skin revealed the better. Long sleeves, long hemlines, high necklines. Even though the western influence had changed the way some women opted to dress, many, especially the male hierarchy, did not approve of this choice. The only way to ensure she drew no unnecessary attention was to follow the old-school rules.

What she really wanted to know more about was this man’s plan for stealing her son away from her ex and his obsessed mother. “What’s your game plan once we’ve arrived? I mean…” She didn’t want to sound dumb or impatient. The investigators she’d hired previously had kept their methods to themselves. Not asking enough questions might or might not have been a mistake, either way she didn’t intend to take the risk this time. She needed to stay on top of every move. “Do you already have an idea of how you want to approach my son?”

Those gray eyes studied her for what felt like half a lifetime before he spoke. She couldn’t decide if he was weighing just how much to tell her or if he simply wanted to gauge her readiness for moving forward.

“The first day we’ll acclimate and do the tourist gig to make ourselves look legit. Then we’ll set up surveillance and wait for the right opportunity.” He lifted those massive shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Or we’ll create an opportunity of our own.”

He sounded so confident, so casual, as if he did this sort of thing every day. She wanted desperately to believe it would be so easy. But a part of her was scared to death that she would gamble on this last-ditch effort and fail, leaving her with nothing.

Not even hope.

This was the moment. Dread knotted in her chest. She’d wrestled all night with the question of whether she should tell him about the last P.I.’s investigator. She’d intended to tell Jim Colby on their first meeting and she’d actually hinted at it, but she hadn’t come right out with what she knew. Part of her was scared to death this man would opt not to go through with his plan if he understood the full risk. He might see this as information he had needed before agreeing to move forward with her case and use her omission as grounds to pull out.

Anxiety tightened like a noose around her throat.

No matter how she weighed it, justified it or pretended the truth away, he deserved to know that truth. As desperately as she wanted her son home with her, she could not bring herself to allow him to go forward blind.

“There’s one other thing I should probably tell you.” She drew in a much-needed breath and reminded herself that she had no choice. “The last P.I. I hired, Mr. Davenport, sent a man to find my son and bring him back home to me.” Willow moistened her lips and prayed that she wasn’t about to make a major mistake. “He got very close. Close enough to take pictures of my baby in a number of settings and situations. I can’t believe just how close he managed to get.”

Those gray eyes continued to peer right through hers, as if he could see into her deepest, darkest thoughts. He asked, “Did this man learn anything that might be useful to our operation? I was under the impression none of the other investigators had accomplished anything of real value.”

The realization that his deep voice contained an edge that hadn’t been there before filled her with dread. If he changed his mind or decided he couldn’t trust her… she just didn’t know what she would do then.

“None of the others were able even to get close… except for the last one. If he discovered anything useful, Mr. Davenport didn’t pass the information along to me.” Don’t stop now. Just do it. Say what had to be said. “Davenport did say that he had lost contact with the man he sent in—the one who got the pictures. He believes the man may have been taken prisoner or murdered by my ex-husband or a member of his personal security.”

There, she’d said it.

She waited for Anders’s response, her heart flailing behind her sternum so she could scarcely draw in enough air. Please don’t let him back out now. Not now. They had to do this. She had to get to her baby, had to bring him home.

“This operation comes with major risks, Ms. Harris. Risks are a part of my job. But what you’ve just told me is all the more reason for you to stay right here while I go do what has to be done.”

Relief rushed along her nerve endings, making her feel unsteady. He hadn’t changed his mind about moving forward. Thank God. “I can’t do that, Mr. Anders. I have to go with you. I have to help get my baby back.” No risk was too great to her. She had to make him understand that.

He didn’t argue the point, which surprised her. Instead, with the help of the receptionist, Connie, he took care of the necessary travel reservations. He went over a few more details with her, and then she left to return to her motel and pack. She would meet him at his office the next morning at seven for one final briefing with Mr. Colby before they headed to the airport.

Then they would get started.

She couldn’t wait.

No matter what happened, she had to do all within her power to get her son back. Some part of her had the almost overwhelming feeling that if she didn’t get him back now she might never see him again.

The feeling ate at her a little more each day.

She surveyed the single suitcase she’d finished packing. Several changes of clothes and the essential toiletries, nothing frivolous. She didn’t dare take a picture of her son, other than the one hidden in her wallet. Even if her purse had to be searched, she felt comfortable that the picture wouldn’t be discovered the way she had it hidden. Anders would carry her son’s passport.

Exhausted, she plopped down on the bed next to her suitcase. She really should get some sleep. It wasn’t that late. She glanced at the clock radio on the table by the bed. Nine-fifteen. But she hadn’t slept well the night before and she needed to be fresh in the morning. Starting tomorrow she had to be in tip-top condition. No distractions, fatigue included. She thought about the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed, but the hangover and dulled senses the morning after weren’t worth it. She’d just have to try getting some sleep the old-fashioned way.

Shouting in the room next door made her jump. She pressed her hand to her chest and stared at the wall that separated her room from the one next door. A man’s voice sounded angry, a woman’s pleading. Whatever was going on, nothing about it conveyed pleasantness.

Maybe she should call the desk and complain. Like that would do any good. The desk clerks she’d encountered so far looked about as interested in their work as fence posts.

A loud crash accompanied by the sound of breaking pottery, the table lamp, she surmised, launched her into action. She’d just reached for the phone when a rap on her door paralyzed her.

It wouldn’t be the people next door since she could still hear them shouting. It was too late for someone from the Equalizers to be dropping by… wasn’t it?

Standing there in the middle of the room wouldn’t answer the question. She moved quietly to the door and checked the peephole.

Spencer Anders waited on the other side.

She had to admit, considering the ruckus next door, she was relieved to see him. After sliding the chain free of its catch, she opened the door.

It wasn’t until she came face-to-face with him that the possibility that he’d arrived bearing bad news formulated in her sleep-deprived head.

“Have our plans changed?” She tried to steel herself for what might be coming, but there wasn’t any way to adequately prepare. She wasn’t sure she could handle bad news. Not now, after she’d gotten this close. She was packed, the tickets had been purchased.

“May I come in?”

In her experience when a person avoided answering a direct question then there was a problem. Her heart started to pound in anticipation of the worst.

“Sure.” She managed to back up and open the door wider. “Is there a problem?”

He closed the door behind him, leaving her with nothing to hold onto. Whether it was the look on her face or the trembling that had started along her limbs, he appeared to comprehend her mounting hysteria.

“There’s no problem. We’re right on schedule.”

She might have exhaled some of the tension just then if the ranting in the other room hadn’t chosen that exact moment to explode all over again.

“Excuse me.”

Spencer Anders pivoted, opened the door and walked back outside.

Confused, Willow followed as far as the door.

He turned and held up a hand for her to stop. “Stay there.”

As ordered, she didn’t move. Several seconds passed before she realized that she didn’t have to stand here like this just because he said so. By then his banging on the door next to hers had silenced the shouting in the other room and startled her so that she couldn’t think to move anyway.

What was he doing?

The neighboring door burst open. “What the hell do you want?” the man towering in the open doorway demanded.

“I’d like to speak with the lady in the room,” Anders said, his tone utterly calm and oddly genial.

“She’s busy right now,” the lanky, mean-looking guy glaring at Anders snapped. “Unless you’re a cop, I’d advise you to get lost.”

Sobbing from inside the room made Willow’s chest tighten.

“I’d like to do that, buddy,” Anders offered, “but you see, I have a problem with jerks like you.”

His next move happened so fast Willow would have missed it entirely if she hadn’t been watching so closely. He slammed the guy square in the jaw with his fist. The jerk dropped to the floor without so much as a grunt. “You okay, ma’am?”

Willow blinked, and in that fraction of a second, Anders was attending to the woman who’d rushed past the fallen jerk and straight into her savior’s arms. By the time the cops had arrived, Anders had ordered Willow back into the room and closed the door.

She peeked past the curtains and watched him comfort the woman as the police took away her boyfriend or John or whatever he was. Nearly a half hour later the cops, as well as the jerk and the woman were gone.

Willow jumped away from the window when Anders knocked on her door even though she’d watched him walk right up and rap his knuckles there.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said as soon as he’d stepped back into her room.

Her brain kept telling her to say that she understood, but her lips wouldn’t form the words.

That intense gray gaze settled on hers once more. “I wanted to give you one last chance to change your mind about going with me to Kuwait. I’m not sure you fully comprehend the magnitude of the danger we may very well encounter.”

She should have anticipated that he would attempt to dissuade her again, but somehow she hadn’t.

“I’m going, Mr. Anders. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

She stared right back at him with all the defiance she could muster in her current state of teetering between total exhaustion and absolute confusion as to what she’d just witnessed with the couple next door. Unfortunately, her body betrayed her and attempted to tremble beneath his continued visual assessment. Dammit, she should be stronger than that.

“In that case, I won’t waste my time or yours.” He reached for the door once more. “I’ll see you in the morning, Ms. Harris. Try to get some sleep.”

Then he left. No more questions or warnings, nothing. He just walked right out as if her answer had been all he needed to move forward.

Willow locked the door and slid the chain back into place. She measured how he’d stepped in to rescue the woman next door against how easily he’d accepted her answer and gone on his way.

A paradox, she decided. One she wasn’t sure she possessed the wherewithal to decipher.

Whatever he was or wasn’t, she sincerely hoped he could follow through with his promise to get her son back. She needed him to be able to do that.

Right or wrong, her son was all that mattered to her just now.

Call it mother’s intuition, but every instinct was screaming at her that time was running out fast. Very fast.

Chapter Five

Wednesday, February 23

Aboard a flight to Kuwait

Spencer watched Willow Harris sleep. She had fought the need for hours before finally surrendering. Then she’d curled up in the window seat next to him. He was glad she’d given in. This might be her last chance to get any decent sleep until the mission was over.

Another hour and they would land at the airport in Kuwait City. He’d spent most of the travel time asking questions about the way she’d met al-Shimmari. The story went like most others with a similar ending. Girl meets boy, girl falls in love with boy. Boy uses wealth and power to take advantage of girl who has not a clue how the cultural differences will eventually impact her life.

The adage love is blind was too damned true.

The story got somewhat muddy during the last year she spent in Kuwait. No matter how he’d phrased the questions or from what angle he had approached the subject, she’d found a way to dodge being completely forthcoming about that timeframe.

He didn’t understand her reasons for holding back. As badly as she wanted to regain custody of her son he had to assume that she would share any possible information even if only remotely relevant. That assumption would lead him to figure that nothing about that final year was significant. However, there was a strong probability that she couldn’t see past the emotional wall she’d built to protect herself from those final months of her marriage. She could be holding back information that would prove useful without even knowing it. That was the part that worried him.

Of course he couldn’t be certain that anything about her marriage, other than the clash of cultures, was pertinent to the current situation, but he had a feeling.

After a decade of diving into covert operations in various settings and under a wide array of conditions, he’d learned to trust his gut implicitly. His instincts had only let him down once.

Spencer leaned back deep into the seat, allowing his thoughts to wander back just over two years—something he rarely permitted. The mission had been as uncomplicated as they came, get in, retrieve the hostages and get out. He and his team had done it a hundred times before.

But that last time something had gone wrong. The hostages were already dead when the team arrived. Spencer had taken the fall for the intelligence leak that had led to the deaths of the hostages.

He hadn’t been able to prove his innocence, but neither had the military investigators assigned to the case been able to prove his guilt.

As far as he was concerned there was only one man to blame for what happened. Colonel Calvin Richards. Richards was retired now, but he’d managed to destroy Spencer’s career before taking that retirement.

Bitterness burned through Spencer. This was why he didn’t let himself think about that particular part of his past. His fingers tightened on the arms of his seat. He hadn’t deserved that kind of end to his career. Prior to the incident two years ago he’d been touted a hero. He’d never wanted the attention that went along with being labeled a hero, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected to be called a traitor.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?”

The flight attendant smiled down at him, ready to provide whatever refreshment he required. The answer to her question was no. He told himself to utter the single-syllable word but the thought of having a drink—just one—was almost overpowering. One drink would likely do the trick. He could relax… let go the tension now twisting his gut.

The other passengers seated around him in first class had been served already. Beer, wine, cocktails, bourbon. It would be so easy. Having a drink once they landed in Kuwait would be near impossible since alcohol was illegal.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wished he could work up the courage to just say no.

“I’ll take a soda.”

Willow’s voice jerked his gaze in her direction. She sat up a little straighter in her seat and gazed expectantly at the flight attendant. He hadn’t realized she’d awakened, much less moved.

“Nothing for you, sir?” the attendant prompted one last time.

“I’ll have the same as the lady.” That his voice was practically a croak made him even angrier, this time at himself for being weak as well as a fool.

“I’ll be right back with your drinks.” The attendant continued down the aisle.

“I can’t believe I slept so long.” Willow stretched her arms and torso, the motion as sleek and languid as a cat’s, the soft moan accompanying those movements sounding as satisfied as a contented purr.

“You were tired.” It was the only response he could dredge up from his preoccupied brain at the moment. He shifted his attention from her, careful not to focus on the alcoholic beverages being enjoyed by the other passengers, and gave himself a mental kick.

The attendant returned with their complimentary drinks. Spencer allowed the fizz of the soda to sit on his tongue before swallowing. He would not let his need to fortify himself screw up this operation. His mind was made up. The two years not withstanding, wallowing in self-pity had never been his style.

This was his opportunity to get his act together. He would not let defeat suck him in again. Willow Harris was counting on him.

Her little boy was counting on him as well, though he didn’t know it yet and might not appreciate it for years to come. The next couple of days would determine the course the boy’s young life took. Would he be raised as an American with his mother’s influence affecting his daily life? Or would his future lie in a different world with a man who very well could be associated with terrorists?

To Spencer’s way of thinking, under normal circumstances both parents should be involved with the rearing of a child. But, if there was even an iota of truth to the rumor that al-Shimmari had ties to terrorists, the man had no right to shape the life of his child.

Proving al-Shimmari’s ties to illegal activities was not Spencer’s job. His focus was reuniting the boy with his mother. He would, in fact, be attempting to steal the child and to smuggle him out of the country with a fake passport. If they were caught, they would face stiff penalties, including jail time.

It was common practice in these cases for one parent or the other to attempt to regain control over their child’s destiny. In this case, the key was to have the child on American soil and in the care of the mother in order to claim jurisdiction for legal purposes. On his own ground, that was exactly what Willow’s ex-husband had done. He, in turn, would fully anticipate that she would retaliate in kind. Unfortunately none of her previous investigators had been successful.

Spencer considered that at least one man may have died in his attempt. This gave him all the more reason to believe that al-Shimmari might not be on the up and up.

Whether he was or not made no difference to Spencer. It did, however, greatly influence the lengths the man would likely be willing to go to in order to protect his continued possession of the child. Possession was extremely important to maintaining legal custody. The American courts generally ruled in favor of the American parent. Willow had, in fact, gained a court order granting her temporary custody months ago. The Kuwaiti courts had chosen to ignore that order. No surprise there.

“I brought along a khimar to wear. I didn’t know if you would think it was necessary, but I’m leaning toward that extra layer of precaution.”

Spencer wrestled his attention back to the present. “I brought one as well. I planned to suggest that you wear it to ensure as much invisibility as possible.” He’d hoped she wouldn’t have a problem wearing the scarf. Though it wasn’t necessary as a western visitor, any steps they could take to ensure she wasn’t identified by anyone from al-Shimmari’s circle of family, friends or business associates would be a good thing. He hadn’t brought it up before in an attempt to avoid giving her anything else to worry about. He’d felt certain she would agree to the last minute suggestion.

Maybe he’d underestimated her determination to cooperate.

“Funny,” she said quietly, “I never wore them before.”

She didn’t look at him as she said this, instead she stared out the window at the passing clouds or maybe nothing in particular.

“An act of defiance?” Was this how the marriage had started off? Or had her husband at first permitted her to cling to her western ways?

“Our relationship was different in the beginning.” Her gaze shifted to the back of the seat in front of her as she spoke. “There was mutual respect. His mother didn’t like that he allowed me to be American, but he seemed perfectly happy with the me he’d married.”

“When did things change?” They’d covered some of how things started to deteriorate, but maybe if he persisted along these lines she would delve into those final months. He settled his half-empty glass on the tray and waited for her to go on with her story.

“After Ata’s birth.” She held her soda in both hands as if she feared a sudden bout of turbulence would catch her off guard. “It was as if he grew ashamed of me. The pressure to stay home and out of the public eye was at first subtle, but then I started to feel like a prisoner. God knows that fortress he calls a residence is more like a prison than a home.”

She placed her drink on the tray above her lap, but didn’t let go of the glass. “Everything about Ata became an issue. I wasn’t holding him right. I wasn’t feeding him properly. Half the time Khaled’s mother was in charge of Ata’s care. They just pushed me aside and did things their way, as if I had no say in the matter.”

That couldn’t have gone over very well. “How did you put a stop to that?”

For the first time since the conversation began she looked him square in the eye. “I pitched a fit. For a while things were better.”

“But that didn’t last long.”

She shook her head. “Then my ex-husband found business to occupy my time.” She leaned her head back against the seat. “To keep me away from our son as much as possible. I didn’t recognize the tactic at first. I was so happy to be involved with my husband’s pursuits I didn’t see the hidden agenda.”

This was the first he’d heard of her being involved with any of al-Shimmari’s work. “What exactly did you do for the family business?”

She traced the droplets of water forming on her glass. “Since my training was in trading stocks and evaluating investment potential, he pretended to want my advice on his financial portfolio.”

If Spencer had been surprised before, he was outright shocked now. Why would a man like al-Shimmari allow her access to his financial records? Sure, she’d been educated in finances, but she wasn’t a seasoned pro by any means. “What do you mean he pretended to want your advice?”